His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand
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aside and sprung the lid, gasping as an eighteen-inch gray pearl and diamond necklace spilled into her hands. “Oh, Fran, I couldn’t.”
Fran closed Cia’s hand over the smooth, cool pearls. “It belonged to my mother and my grandmother before that. My mother’s wedding ring went to Ambe—” She cut herself off with a pained glance at Matthew. “My oldest son, but I saved this for Lucas’s wife. I want you to have it. It’s your something old.”
Madre de Dios, how did she refuse?
This was way worse than a villa—it was an heirloom. A beautiful expression of lineage and family and her eyes stung as Fran clasped it around Cia’s neck. It hung heavy against her skin, and she couldn’t speak.
“It’s stunning with your dark hair. Oh, I know it’s not the height of fashion,” Fran said with a half laugh. “It’s old-lady jewelry. So humor me, please, and wear it at the ceremony, then put it away. I’ll let Lucas buy you pretty baubles more to your taste.”
Cia touched the necklace with the tips of her fingers. “Thank you.” A paltry sentiment compared to the emotion churning through her.
Fran smiled. “You’re welcome. At the risk of being tactless, I was crushed you didn’t want any family at the wedding. I’m more than happy to pitch in as mother of the bride, if that’s part of the issue. You must be missing yours.”
Before Cia’s face crumpled fully, Lucas materialized at her side and pulled her to her feet. “Mama. I told you Cia doesn’t want a big ceremony or any fuss. She doesn’t even like jewelry.”
Obviously he’d been listening to the conversation. As Fran sputtered, Cia retreated a few mortified steps and tried to be grateful for the intervention.
Her dry eyes burned. No big church wedding for her. No flower girls, chamber music or a delicate sleeveless ecru dress with a princess waist, trimmed in lace. All that signified the real deal, an ability to gift someone with her love and then trust the fates not to rip her happiness away with no warning.
Neither could she in good conscience develop any sort of relationship with Mrs. Wheeler. Better to hurt her now, rather than later.
With her heart in shredded little pieces, Cia unclasped the necklace. “Thank you, but I can’t wear this. It doesn’t go with a simple civil ceremony. I’m pretty busy at work for the foreseeable future, so lunch is out of the question.”
Fran’s expression smoothed out as she accepted the return of her box and necklace. “I overstepped. You have my apologies.”
“It’s fine, Mama. We should go,” Lucas said and nodded to the rest of his family, who watched her coolly.
Excellent. Now they all hated her. That’s what she should have been going for all night. Then when she and Lucas divorced, he could blame it all on her, and his family would welcome him back into the fold with sympathy and condolences. His mother would say she knew Cia wasn’t the right girl for him the moment she’d thrown his great-grandmother’s pearls back in her face.
Cia murmured her goodbyes and followed Lucas through the house and out into the starless night.
Once they were settled in their seats, he drove away, as slow as Christmas. But she didn’t care so much this time and burrowed into the soft leather, oddly reassured by the scent of pine trees curling around her.
“Thanks, Lucas,” she said, and her voice cracked. “For giving me the out with your mother. It was …”
“No problem,” he said, jumping in to fill the silence when she couldn’t go on. “It takes two to make marriage work, fake or otherwise. I’ll do damage control with Mama in the morning. And, darlin’, I must confess a real fondness to you calling me Lucas.”
His gaze connected with hers, arcing with heat, and the current zinged through the semidark, close quarters of the car. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her pulse skittered.
All of a sudden, it was later.
Lucas spent the silent, tense ride home revamping his strategy.
Fragileness deepened Cia’s shadows, and it was enough to cool his jets. Nothing would have pleased him more than to walk into the house, back her up against the door and start that kiss over again, but this time, his hands would stroke over the hot curves of her body and she’d be naked in short order.
But she wasn’t like other women. She wasn’t in touch with her sexuality, and he had to live with her—and himself—for the next six months. While he’d like to sink straight into a simple seduction, he had to treat her differently, with no idea what that looked like.
Once they cleared the detached garage, he slid his hand into hers. “Thanks for going to dinner.”
Her fingers stiffened. She glanced at him, surprise evident. “You say that like I had a choice.”
“You did. With me, you always have a choice. We’re partners, not master and slave. So, I’m saying thank you for choosing to spend the evening with my family. It was difficult for you, and I appreciate it.”
Her gaze flitted over him, clearly looking for the punch line. “You’re welcome, then.”
He let go of her hand to open the door. “Now, I don’t know about you, but my parents’ house always makes me want to let loose a little. I’m half-afraid to move, in case I accidentally knock over one of Mama’s precious knickknacks.”
Cia smiled, just a little, but it was encouraging all the same. “It is easier to breathe in our house.”
Our house. She’d never called it that before, and he liked the sound of it. They were settling in with each other, finding a groove.
He followed her into the living room. “Let’s do “Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?”
Instead of answering, he crossed to the entertainment center and punched up the music she’d been playing earlier, when he’d returned home from playing basketball. A mess of electronic noise blasted through the speakers, thumping in his chest. “Dance with me,” he yelled over the pulsing music.
“To this?” Disbelief crinkled her forehead. “You haven’t even been drinking, white boy.”
“Come on.” He held out a hand. “You won’t dance in public. No one is watching except me, and I can’t dance well enough to warrant making fun of you.”
He almost fell over when she shrugged and joined him. “I don’t like people watching me, but I never said I couldn’t dance.”
To prove it, she cut her torso in a zigzag and whirled in an intricate move worthy of a music video, hair flying, hands framing her head.
He grinned and crossed his arms, content to be still and watch Cia abandon herself to the beat. His hunch had been right—anyone with her energy would have to be a semicompetent dancer.
After a minute or so of the solo performance, she froze and threw him a look. “You’re not dancing.”
“Too hard to keep up with that, honey. I’m having a great time. Really. Keep going.”
“Not if you’re just going to stand there. You asked me to dance with you.”
Only because he hadn’t actually thought she’d say yes. “So I did.”
He could be a good sport. But he could not, under any circumstances, dance to anything faster than Brooks & Dunn.
So, he let her make fun of him instead, as he flapped his arms and stomped his feet in what could easily be mistaken for an epileptic seizure. When she laughed so hard she had to hold her sides, nothing but pure Cia floated through her eyes.
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